


Blue Jeans

by dreamofhorses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Facetime, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14455860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: After Timmy tweeted that he was listening to a very swoony, romantic song, and Armie was seen in New Orleans looking great in costume for his new film, I just had to combine the two.As always this work would not exist if I didn't Slack. Special thanks to MonikaKrasnorada for her enthusiasm for this prompt.





	Blue Jeans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonikaKrasnorada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/gifts).



_Armie_

When they told him New Orleans was hot, he never figured it was hot like this. He’s an island boy, he knows from heat. Only apparently he doesn’t. He even knows to expect the humidity, and it’s there when he steps off the plane, a prison guard greeting a returned escapee. But there’s something else in the air here, a history that hangs between the cypress branches, a way that the city’s psychology is somehow physical, and as soon as Armie feels it creeping up the sides of his neck like certain well-remembered fingers, he knows he’s fucked.

Liz has planned to visit, of course, and he can’t very well tell her not to. “Sorry dear, the heat,  the sun, and the whole damn city’s attitude that debauchery is just honesty that needs a good shower have really got me missing Timmy right now. Would you mind staying in LA just a few days, weeks, years longer?” Just when he thinks he’s gotten her out of the city for good, her parents announce a surprise visit and he has to fly her back. The worst part of it is picturing Timmy’s face when he has to text him _Tim, I’m sorry, she’s coming, we’ll have the kids and her folks, hold on to the ticket and I’ll make it up to you._ He’d gotten a single line back, the peace sign and heart emojis as always from Timmy, plus a couple of extra hearts thrown in for good measure, but then he didn’t hear from Timmy for a day and a half and that’s how Armie knew he was hurt. Then Liz called the paps, let the Daily Mail run a sidebar of her sitting on his lap, and all Armie could do was make sure he held the arms of the chair, made sure that if Timmy saw the photos in England he’d at least know that Armie wasn’t touching her, wasn’t holding her out in the New Orleans sunshine the way he held Timmy in hallways and furtive hotel rooms and tiny apartments and anywhere besides open bright places where people could see.

The best he can do, the best he can offer, knowing as always that Timmy deserves better, is to slip away after the paps have done their worst and Liz has toddled off to charge her phone, to try and give Timmy the one tiny comfort he can. He pulls up the messages Timmy’s been sending, that he’s had to ignore in case Liz sees, in case Timmy’s had a couple of drinks and sent one of the photos that Armie saves in a folder labeled “E-Books” (it’s the last place Liz would look). Looks like Timmy’s sober tonight, though, and the texts are ones Armie’s gotten so used to seeing that once he realizes how normal they’ve become, it breaks his heart all over again.

 _It rained today and I thought of Crema_  
_I know you don’t like me saying that_  
_But sometimes it’s so true it doesn’t matter what either of us want_  
_It’s a lot colder here though  
We’d have to hold each other tighter_

Even as Armie slips around the corner of the building where they’re filming, clutching his phone, he knows what a small comfort this will be to Timmy. After the aborted visit, who knew when they would see each other again? And that’s an uncertainty Armie can do nothing about. Armie ducks behind a trailer into an alley. It’s cooler here, and quiet, and he’s alone. Only then does he realize how long it’s been since he had any of those things on their own, much less together in one place like this. He takes a deep breath and texts Timmy back.

 _You still up? It’s gotta be getting late there but I just saw your messages.  
_ _If I were there I’d hold you, Tim_

Armie leans against the wall. He doesn’t have to wait long for a response.

_I’m up. In bed. Holding the pillow. It’s not you._

Armie hears Timmy’s pout through his phone. He glances to either side, and just the thought of what he’s about to do makes him stiffen in his already-fitted jeans. He leans against the wall and slides his hand inside the sweat-slick waistband of his jeans to undo the button. When Armie unzips his jeans the rush of air and sensation around his cock brings it to full attention. His wardrobe jeans are so tightly fitted they don’t allow for underwear. He takes his phone in his right hand and slips his wedding band into his jeans pocket before wrapping his left hand around his erect cock. He snaps a photo and sucks in a sharp breath as he zips himself back up. When he sends the picture to Timmy he sends an accompanying text: _Hope this will do till I can hold you...and do other things…_

The reply this time is so fast Armie pictures Timmy in bed, glowing phone close to his face, hair a mess on the pillow, typing a million words a minute with his long fingers.

_FaceTime. Tomorrow night._

 

_Timmy_

When they told him it never gets dark in London, he thought they meant in a New York way. All the lights, but blackness behind, cities the only places where man is able to hold the stars at arm’s length. It turns out they mean in a blue way, that the sky never quite lets go of the sunset, a hopeful scrim of navy behind the skyline, always holding out hope until the next morning. Timmy is put in mind of Picasso, van Gogh, Matisse. And Lana. _Blue Jeans._ What Armie was wearing in the photo he sent yesterday. He’d listened to the song all day, even Tweeted about it when a random stranger’s tag made it seem not _too_ weird that he brought it up.

The song’s playing now, softly and still on repeat, from his laptop across the room. His hotel has a balcony, and it’s open to the street, a few noises still drifting in although it’s almost dawn. It’s close to Armie’s bedtime in the States, so he’ll probably call soon.

 **_You were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hop_ **  
**_But you fit me better than my favorite sweater, and I know  
_ _That love is mean, and love hurts_**

Timmy’s singing softly along to the line about his favorite sweater when his phone lights up. It’s Armie, of course, and when he accepts the call he sees Armie’s face, blurry in darkness, with a growth of scruff on his face. He’s in his hotel room, and he’s alone.

“Some photo you sent me yesterday,” Timmy teases, hoping this is the right tone.

“I do what I can,” Armie shoots back, and his voice says _This may sound like a joke but it’s exactly what I want to say._ “Couldn’t help thinking of you all alone in that big hotel bed. Thought I might help out.” Armie’s tone is growing lower by the second and it warms Timmy’s blood. “Whatcha wearing anyway?”

Timmy pans the phone down his body. He’s in a sweater Armie gave him ages ago, the last time he’d visited LA. _“Here, you take this, Tim, it’s not my color anyway and you’re the only person I know whose arms are anywhere near as long as mine,”_ Armie had said loudly, Elizabeth in the room preparing sandwiches, giving Timmy an excuse to take it. Timmy had packed the sweater and only realized when he unpacked it all the way across the country that Armie had doused it in his cologne and wrapped it around a bottle of Timmy’s favorite bourbon. There was a note on the bottle: _Sometimes this keeps me warm in a bed alone. Maybe by the time you finish it I’ll make it so you never have to sleep alone again._ That note was still in Timmy’s wallet everywhere he went. Sometimes it was the only piece of hope he had.

Besides the sweater Timmy’s in only his boxers. “I was just looking at that picture from yesterday before you called,” he teases.  
  
“Really?” Armie sounds surprised.

“Well, not tonight, but earlier today. I was looking at it before that Skype call I had with Amazon and I had to take a cold shower really quick to even make the panel.” This much, at least, is true.

“Made you hot, did it?” Armie asks in his low voice. “Show me.”

Timmy pans down to his boxers with the phone in his right hand. He noticed Armie removing his wedding ring for yesterday’s photo and knew it was another tiny gesture from Armie, so he’d made one of his own. When he goes to touch himself through the boxers, the sleeve of the sweater rides up and the blue light of dawn catches the bracelet on Timmy’s wrist. It’s the gold one with the disc charm on it that Armie had given him at the start of awards season. Armie knew Timmy got nervous, was fidgety on red carpets, and this was a sleek way to hide it while still giving him something to soothe himself with when cameras weren’t looking. And it worked, so well that partway through the season Timmy stopped wearing it, thought he was fine without it. He had Armie at his side, after all, gripping his shoulders and making him laugh, knowing that when a thousand cameras were pointed at Timmy he would still be able to pick out Armie’s face and voice in the crowd.

The first night he spent in London, he’d put the bracelet on and cried himself to sleep worrying the disc back and forth between his fingers.

He makes sure Armie sees the bracelet now and when he hears Armie suck in breath sharply he knows he has realized what it means that Timmy is wearing it again. “Show me your face, Tim,” Armie whispers. This isn’t a phone sex call anymore. “Why are you wearing it again?”

  
_Because I haven’t come as far as I thought I did, I only thought I was making progress because I was trying to keep up with you. Because sometimes when I touch myself, if I move fast enough the disc hits my wrist like a second pulse, like a second heartbeat. Because the disc is scratched and different now but still blank, and I keep hoping maybe we’ll get a chance to write something there someday._  

 ******_I told you that no matter what you did I'd be by your side_**  
**_Cause I'm a ride or die_**  
**_Whether you fail or fly_**  
**_Well shit, at least you tried_**  
**_But when you walked out that door, a piece of me died_**  
**_I told you I wanted more-but that's not what I had in mind  
_ _I just want it like before_**

 What Timmy says is, “It makes me feel better.”

“I wish to god I could do that, Tim.”

“Me too, Armie.”

Timmy disconnects the call softly. The sun is coming up beyond his balcony. He watches it rise in its entirety, until the sky is the color of a pair of eyes he’ll never forget, and then he shakes his head to clear it before he heads to the set.


End file.
